Chapter 3 Sebastian
Sebastian Sudworth rolled out on his mechanic’s dolly from underneath Andi’s Dodge pickup truck with flourish, pushing his
“You sure look like you know what you’re doing. That should count for something,” Andi teased.
“It really should,” Sebastian agreed. He stayed on his back and used his motor oil–covered hand as a visor as he squinted
up at her, standing directly between him and the early-morning sun. “Having said that, I’d strongly recommend you have Roland
swing by and double-check my handiwork.”
“Aww, Seb. Don’t worry.” She threw a towel at him as he stood. “I always do.”
He chuckled and wiped off his hands. Truth be told, he thought he was beginning to get the hang of the simple things—changing
out fluids and filters, tightening gears, that sort of thing. Roland Cross was a good teacher. Andi Franklin was possibly
an even better one, if only because she let her student get his hands dirty.
Adelaide Springs, Colorado, didn’t have any Uber or Lyft drivers, but it had Valet Forge, the car fleet Andi had taken over when her husband died of cancer a few years prior.
Well, it was generous to call a 2013 Jeep Wrangler, a 2016 Chevy Silverado, and a hideous orange-and-white 1974 Ford Bronco a fleet.
Most of their passengers were tourists passing through, staying there just for the night and afraid to drive on the icy mountain roads after dark.
Valet Forge employed one full-time driver: Fenton Norris.
No one seemed to know exactly how old Fenton was, but Sebastian had noticed he could be counted on for a “When I was your age . . .” story no matter who he was talking to—from seven-year-old regional spelling bee champ Olive Morissey to seventy-something-year-old mayor Doc Atwater.
Neil Pinkton, fresh out of high school, manned the dispatch. Neil was saving up money for college, or maybe just to move to
Denver and give city life a try, but Andi would love having him there for as long as it lasted. Before he went the way of
the other few Adelaide Springs residents of his generation.
Sebastian picked up shifts a couple times a week—sometimes because Fenton was scheduled to have the night off and sometimes
because Fenton forgot he was scheduled to work until after he’d had a couple of beers. Sebastian usually jumped at the chance.
He enjoyed chatting with tourists, and it was fun to drive that ugly old Bronco. It was a classic, of course, and getting
it out on the mountain roads was Sebastian’s go-to trick for experiencing adrenaline and comfort, all at once.
The pickup truck was Andi’s personal vehicle, and that morning was the first time she’d allowed Sebastian to try out his developing
mechanic skills on it. He felt good about it. He’d feel even better when Andi made it safely home that night—in other words,
when she didn’t go careening into an elk herd because Sebastian had unknowingly cut her brake line or something.
Yeah... it would be good for Roland to swing by. Just in case.
“What’s on your agenda for today?” Andi asked him as he took a second to stretch his arms over his head and rotate his shoulders.
“Heading back to the Bean? Coffee’s on me.”
The Bean Franklin. Andi’s other Revolutionary pun-inspired enterprise.
“I can’t. Council meeting.”
He hadn’t meant to roll his eyes at the mention of that morning’s city council meeting, scheduled to begin at nine, but he
hadn’t fought very hard to prevent it either. Andi’s laughter indicated his disdain had slipped through.
“Ah yes. Today’s the big vote. How could I have forgotten?”
“Ha! Vote . As if the outcome isn’t already decided.”
“It’s going to be good for the town, Seb.” The laughter was still in her eyes, but there was a slight hint of lecture in her
voice. “There are only a few weeks left of ski season, and Jo’s only had a guest or two at the inn every night. At most. What’s
it going to look like once the season’s over? At least bringing back Township Days will get some tourists passing through
again.”
Township Days. Sebastian didn’t understand how anyone in Adelaide Springs kept a straight face when they talked about Township
Days. It was the stupidest thing he’d ever heard of in his life.
Apparently, in 1975 an advertisement had run in whatever the 1975 equivalent of AARP magazine was, promoting the big upcoming celebration happening in Adelaide Springs, Colorado.
The big upcoming four-day celebration with Revolutionary War reenactments on Adelaide Battlefield—where Patriot militia had infamously been defeated by the British after failing to bring the gunpowder in out of the rain, of course.
(It was early in the war. They got better.) It was worth celebrating, in 1975 and beyond, because the Massacre at Adelaide Battlefield availed the surviving members of the Fourth New Hampshire Regiment to provide their assistance at the Battle of Bunker Hill.
You know . . . any excuse for a parade and a carnival.
The problem, of course, was that the Massacre at Adelaide Battlefield had taken place in Adelaide Township, New Hampshire.
Not in Adelaide Springs, Colorado. Obviously. Since Meriwether Lewis and William Clark would have still been toddling around
in their colonial nappies at the time.
But when a tour bus of senior citizens back in 1975 showed up to check out the historically inaccurate absurdity, some particularly
industrious citizens of Adelaide Springs—suffering from the economic impact of the worst drought in thirty years—made the
most of it. It was a ridiculous farce, but they sold it with aplomb for the length of an afternoon.
By the time the country was celebrating the bicentennial the following year, word had spread about the kitschy battle reenactments
and butter-churning expertise worthy of Mount Vernon happening in the Centennial State—so nicknamed because of its statehood
that didn’t come along until one hundred years after the Declaration of Independence.
“But see, Andi, these aren’t the types of tourists we want.”
She crossed her arms and leaned her shoulder against the wall of the Valet Forge garage. “Why? Do these types of tourists
not have money?”
Ah. That old chestnut.
It was the same argument that everyone in town threw at him when he voiced his objections. It was the argument that was going
to result in the rest of the city council overruling him three-to-one in today’s vote.
He grinned and made his way to the sink beside her to wash his hands. And his arms. His neck, maybe? Good grief. Had he gotten
any oil into the truck?
“Yes, they have money. And I know there’s something to be said for an immediate influx of cash. I’m not downplaying that. Really.” He pumped a handful of the powder soap that always reminded him of elementary school and began scrubbing. “But that won’t last long. They’ll be here a day. Maybe two.”
“It’s a four-day festival, Seb.”
“Fine. They’ll be here four days. And then they’ll go home—”
“And tell their friends about this adorable little mountain town that’s only forty-five miles from Telluride—”
“Oh, come on! That’s as the crow flies, and you know it. It takes four hours to drive to Telluride.”
“And they’ll tell their friends that this little town had the best mountain views they’ve ever seen, and the best hospitality,
and it would be a delightful scenic detour on a trip to Denver or Vegas or LA—”
“See, that’s the thing. That’s not how it will get communicated.” He finished rinsing and grabbed a clean towel from the utility shelf. “They’ll tell their
friends about all the times they got lost because the signs off the highway were outdated and unclear. They’ll talk about
how they got stuck in the snow or mud or dust storm or elk migration, and by the time they got to Adelaide Springs, late at
night, the two restaurants in town were closed. There was an inn, but by the time they got there, all the rooms were full.”
Andi guffawed. “Jo has nine rooms, you know. I’m pretty sure she’s never sold out.” She thought for a moment and then asked in earnest, “You really think the inn will be full?”
Still drying, he turned to face her and rested his hip against the sink. “I don’t know, Andi. And that’s sort of the point.
We don’t know what to expect, and we don’t know if we’re prepared for it, and everyone wants to rush into this thing for September.
It just makes no sense. We can’t act out of desperation and expect anything better than a mess to clean up on the other side.”
She eyed him warily and appeared deep in thought, and he began to feel hopeful that maybe he’d helped one person apply some
logic to the situation.
After a few more seconds of silent staring, she shrugged. “If the inn is full, they can just drive on to the next town—”
“Where they have fewer rooms than we do.”
“—or to Alamosa. They have plenty of chain hotels in Alamosa. And it’s an easy drive since it’s interstate almost the whole
way.”
Why did no one ever realize that when they were arguing these same points with him, over and over, they were actually helping
him prove his point?
“First of all, it’s more than forty miles of interstate, after driving on twenty miles of back roads just to get there. An
hour out of the way is a big deal at the end of a long day. But more than that, is that really the first impression we want
to give? If our answer for them is going to be to head to Alamosa, why didn’t we just encourage them to make reservations
there in the first place?”
There was more he wanted to say. More that he had said, so many times.
His fellow city councilors—Doc Atwater, Josephine Stoddard, and William Kimball—hadn’t given much credence to any of his arguments.
Of course he was pretty sure Old Man Kimball had a filter on his hearing aid that made the voices of anyone under sixty indecipherable,
so there was no real way to tell what he really thought. Sebastian was convinced he just voted with the majority on every
issue so he could get home sooner.